Rain lashed against the windows of the solicitor's office, mirroring the storm brewing inside Amelia. Her brother, Thomas, beamed, clutching the deed to their grandmother’s vineyard. Amelia, on the other hand, received a small, leather-bound book – a collection of her grandmother's unpublished poems. The air in the room felt thick, like she was submerged in something viscous and heavy. She hadn’t spoken since the reading, her throat clenched and dry. Thomas was already making plans for the first harvest, his voice filled with an animated excitement that felt like a physical blow. She just wanted to go home and hide.
The book felt surprisingly heavy in her hands. She ran a finger over the embossed cover, the texture a stark contrast to the sterile environment of the office. Opening it, the scent of aged paper and dried ink filled her nostrils, a faint reminder of the woman she missed with a hollowness that threatened to swallow her. The poems were a whisper, a secret language between her and her grandmother. Thomas had the tangible, the practical. She had the echoes.
She excused herself and went to sit by the window, watching the rain blur the world outside. The silence between them felt so loud she thought the world would crack.